Chapter 503 - 505: Linga Felt

The air was fresh, carrying the scent of the wind. The gentle sunlight bathed the distant hills; a variety of flora grew in this area, with small critters and slimes moving in the area.

It made for a beautiful sight, a shame it didn’t have much cover save for the many sloping green hills that made it difficult to see the whole terrain.

No individual hill was taller than the others.

Each of them became a natural obstacle for travelers. It would have been quite a beautiful sight, if not for its dangers.

This place was called the green hills, and these many hills hid and concealed a variety of monsters: goblins, bewilder beasts, but mostly orcs.

Large, lumbering brutes with a taste for human flesh.

This was the golden road, so the lords of the regions usually set adventurers and knights to keep their population down.

This was an effort to avoid monster stampedes.

However, sometimes negligence could lead to disasters.

The caravan’s journey pressed on.

At first light, they had roused themselves and begun the long, grueling march once more.

Damon now sat quietly at the back of his great stag, the beast’s heavy hoofbeats a steady rhythm against the worn earth. The road was rough, the hills endless, and the sun already threatening to burn the morning mist away.

And yet, what truly vexed Damon wasn’t the terrain—it was his growing popularity.

Against his better judgment, he’d shared some of his food and resources with the caravan. The result? Unwanted admiration.

These commoners now viewed him as some wandering noble, maybe even a prince traveling incognito—albeit poorly.

His black armor, ethereal crown, and visible second-class aura did little to help his case. Everything about him reeked of someone high-born or chosen.

Which led to the current problem.

They kept coming to him. To settle disputes. To ask for guidance. To seek blessings.

He would’ve usually shut them down with cold indifference, but this time—just this once—Damon decided to play along. This was his experiment.

He wanted to engage with the world, at least a little.

If he was going to change anything, he needed more than power. Influence was a power in its own right. And beyond that, perhaps—just perhaps—he was trying to live up to a philosophy. Carmen Vale’s kindness. Valarie Sunwarden’s ideals.

A balance of strength and kindness.

But in truth, this kindness he offered now was nothing more than a counterweight. A way to justify what he intended to do at the end of this journey. When he returned to his village—not with hatred in his heart, but with calm judgment.

And oddly enough, helping these people had borne fruit.

Among the worn faces of the caravan, Damon spotted someone familiar. Someone from the deep recesses of his half forgotten childhood.

The man sat in the back of a carriage, surrounded by children. His beard was unkempt, his clothes little more than rags, and he now lacked a leg—an addition to the arm he was already missing back then.

His eyes were dull, world-weary. And yet, he smiled gently at the children, as if trying to inspire hope he no longer believed in.

Damon remembered him well.

He had first noticed the man when someone accused him of stealing food.

The matter would’ve had him thrown out—until Damon stepped in, offering extra labor as punishment and vowing to feed the caravan himself.

He hadn’t been sure whether to approach the man before—but now, he knew.

Linga Felt.

To others, the name meant little. To Damon, it was synonymous with the end of the world—his world.

Linga had been the one to bring back his father’s broken sword and his mother’s locket.

He hadn’t said much to Damon—just handed him the relics in silence. But he’d told the village elders everything. And then he left.

"That was when they showed their true colors," Damon thought grimly.

Now, fate had brought them together again. Just before he returned to the place where everything had started.

He gently urged the stag forward.

But before he could reach the man, two shadows darted across his vision. Fast. Feral.

A red squirrel and a raven raced toward him from the horizon, each trying to outpace the other in a flurry of feathers and fur.

The raven reached him first, landing smoothly on his outstretched hand and hopping to his shoulder with a satisfied caw. The squirrel followed a heartbeat later, hurling a storm of curses at the bird for being a "filthy cheat."

Damon sighed. Each day, the two creatures grew more intelligent—perhaps too intelligent. Their competition with each other was starting to mirror human rivalries.

"That’s enough, you two."

Thanks to his [Soul Tongue] skill, he could understand their frantic chatter. Judging from their speed and urgency, they’d found something worth reporting.

The raven cawed again.

"Caw caw—orc orc orc!"

Even without coherent words, the meaning was clear.

Damon turned to the squirrel, who squeaked and gestured rapidly with its tiny paws.

He frowned.

This wasn’t good.

Before he could act, a familiar voice called out behind him.

"What’s the problem?" asked Unnoticed Singularity, jumping down from one of the carriages.

Damon didn’t answer. He grabbed the reins of his stag and galloped ahead, heading straight to the front of the caravan where the adventurers rode—the first and only line of defense if anything went wrong.

He came to a stop in front of the lead carriage, facing a beastkin warrior who did not look pleased to see him.

"Stop the caravan. Now," Damon ordered.

The beastkin narrowed his eyes. "Why? Who are you to give us orders?"

Unnoticed Singularity caught up just in time, breath short from the sprint.

"What’s going on?"

Damon raised his voice so all could hear.

"A large—no, a small army of orcs is heading in our direction. They’re scattered throughout the hills, likely unaware of our presence."

His words froze the air. Whispers spread like fire.

"How many?" Singularity asked, face pale.

Damon’s eyes turned cold.

"Too many. If we keep moving, there’ll be civilian casualties."